They all know the police were here talking to me.

They just don’t know why.

Not yet.

And so I set my gaze on the large windows that look out onto the stormy sky, raindrops sparkling from the panes.

I sit down and fire up my computer. Wesley is shuffling around with papers on his side of the desk. The fluorescent light flickering above me is a little too bright. My computer sparks to life and I’m about to navigate to my inbox when Wesley stands up and says, ‘Are you coming?’

Right. It’s just before ten on a Thursday.

That means one thing: the editorial meeting.

Four minutes later I’m taking a seat at the meeting room table beside Wesley. I glance over at the sheet of paper in front of him. It’s folded over, like he thinks I’m going to steal his ideas.

Hyacinth walks in and closes the door after her with a bang then sits at the head of the table.

‘Right,’ she says, ‘dazzle me. Who would like to go first?’

‘Me,’ comes Stan’s voice. Stern. Clear. We all turn to look at him. He’s sitting at the end of the table, slouched forward so the buttons of his light blue shirt tug at the fabric.

Hyacinth hesitates for a split second. I think of him pacing around in her office on Tuesday then slamming the door as I ran to the loos to vomit.

‘As some of you might have already read, they found a woman’s body yesterday.’ A vein is popping out the side of his temple like he’s really fucking annoyed. ‘The one I spoke to you about on Tuesday, Hyacinth. You’ll be glad to know that she’s officially dead now. And, bless the lord, she’s pretty too. Will make perfect click-bait.’

The bit about click-bait is said with a dark and venomous smile. It’s aimed at Hyacinth, at her moral compass.

‘So, obviously, I’m going to be writing about that.’

I watch Hyacinth as she stares at him. Her fuchsia-painted lips are pursed, like her mouth just turned sour.

The room is as silent as the Notre Dame during mass as they stare each other down. Then Hyacinth speaks. ‘No. Harper should write this,’ she says, eyes to me.

Beat.

‘What?’ Stan’s face gets so pink it’s almost puce. ‘Why the hell would Harper write it?’

He glares at me now and my stomach clenches.

‘Because Harper was there,’ Hyacinth says calmly. ‘You will only be able to write exactly what every other reporter will be writing. Harper has an angle.’

‘I have a source at the police,’ Stan snaps.

Silence.